


komaru kind of dies

by ruruka



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: sibling bonding & concert going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 15:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12937968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruruka/pseuds/ruruka
Summary: #1 sayakers in the world.





	komaru kind of dies

"In monochromatic world, we talk about monochromatic stories. The sepia colored memory remains a mystery."

Summer nights are a swallow's worth of lovely. Energy- it melts from their skin like the drips of a quick dip.

The road is dark ahead of them, headlights slicing easy through it on their way past. Everything in the opposing lane is butter on a skillet, whilst their own inches as does January's margarine. Still, they find the splendor layered beneath it, and he takes the next section in a snap of teeth wide.

"In the monochromatic background, a vivid color  _flooows-"_

"And it will flow towards  _yooooooou!"_ Their voices mesh to the bridge's end. She jives as much as the seatbelt's restraint will allow from her spot in the passenger seat.

"This is gonna be...the best night ever!" proclaims she. The lingering melody backs her words.

Aside her, her brother finds sharper tugs gainst his mouth's corners. "I know, Maizono's Honshu tours are always awesome."

The concert traffic absolutely is not, though they bide by way of the car radio belting out the phone's album plugged to it, by way of turning themselves an absolute set of fools for the evening's eyes sole. Singing, humming, raving in seats. All entirely off-key, by some delirious managing. Cease it finds not, either, even once they've met feet to front row flooring, jumping bumping knocking. They lead the sea of florescence, and it seems one could estimate an average of ten thousand blue and pink glowsticks in the crowd and not be off by much.

Those ten thousand turn ten million once they begin to spiral and wave at the tread off of the opening act. It isn't so that the sweet little nonuplet of idol girls has left them sour, but rather their vanishing behind curtains harsh means the emergence of what's drawn the salivation from each tongue. At the front, the two clutch one another, radiating very practically in the jitters of muscle.

Four frilly dresses dance out to the stage's either side, and once the center spot is filled, each and every person seems to lose their civility by the snap of two fingers.

He thinks he'll be deaf in another thirty second's time, yet wouldn't trade this place to one begging on bloodied knees. He thinks he'll be deaf in another half second's time when his sister begins to shriek a cadaver risen, arms tightening about his shoulders to his cheek's press into her tee graphics. Nothing out of the ordinary for being their nineteenth outing of this breed. He just hopes she'll resist frothing at the mouth this time around.

The one they both so find their hearts throbbing a new rhythm for stands center stage still, one leg poised the slightest outward (and that's not something most would care to glance at, a mere leg, but the top caliber of fans would notice a single strand fallen from its bow) and hands wrapped round the diamond studs to her microphone.

"Good evening, everyone!" she bursts into it at tantalizing last, head tilting to rest perfect chin to perfect index finger, all so perfectly punctuated in her closed eye simper and tirelessly rehearsed giggle (he knows- he's helped her practice it all). She rests back a moment, knowing full well the eruption of cries that always slaps back at her. To its mild wane, she takes to the mic again, this time with the side helping of instrumental. Ten thousand throats sear in tandem.

He allows himself the looseness to her very last note. When it comes time for their chanting  _encore! encore! encore!_ he hardly is able to keep up, though is sure she'd appreciate his meek attempt at it regardless. Back to the stage she flounces for a true finale, and again goes the spewing hydrant of yowls.

In the midst of it all, the moshing and the thrashing and the  _everything!,_ he'd lost track of Komaru in the crowd's merciless thousands. It's daunting, tribulation clawing up his shoulders.  _Have you seen my sister? She's a teenage girl, wearing a Maizono Sayaka t-shirt and waving two glowsticks- oh, you did, eight thousand three hundred fifty two times-?_ It's a task to deal with...soon enough, because he swears that ocean eyed wink was  _directly_ at himself alone, and he clasps it against his thrumming chest before shoving as near to the front as allowed to reach and shout and wish.

Maizono gives her resignation speech as the harmony draws to a close, falling back against her boot heels to let the curtains swallow her form. Angelic spirit trails from the finger-formed heart to the side of her chest.

He's sweat enough to wring his shirt and replenish a drought. Wrist drawing under his bangs with a wet flick, he scans the dwindles of fans fading out, mascara rolling down cheeks, tongues weeping out for hydration. A certain relief grabs his hand to see the object of his search a meter away and drawing less so once his steps shove him toward her.

"There you a-"

Yes, there she is, though were he asked her name, he'd only have the confidence to try  _number eight thousand three hundred fifty three._ Worry splinters his will into a greenstick fracture.

The stranger continues her trek with the rest of the mob to the arena's outside. He himself adopts a stiff armed pace the opposite direction, recalling all the way why he's yet to take on parenthood.

But hasn't he this plight to bear alone (and hardly does it qualify, so much, though more so does his middle tremble with the passing seconds and thinning of crowd). From his pocket he grasps his messenger bird to the outside world, nearly slipping from his hand's unsteady, but he's not too much an adrenaline rush to turn it on and check his vomit of notifications. There's a dozen partially coherent texts from Kuwata, all timestamped perfectly to have gone unnoticed while the phone turned his Corolla into a ten mile rager. And-  _ah, the car!_ He'd find her there, of course. The messages slide away as he dials, tucks to shoulder, squeezes itty bitty body past the exiting zombies.

Immediately, the late air pinches every nerve ending, a delicious solace from the 110 mercury throb. He's still sprinting toward his parking spot (VIP, naturally, courtesy of his heavenly BFF and her ability to make marionettes of the world) while the call burns against his ear. The tone dies off to silence, which tickles him in relief again, only for it to be snatched from him in the memory of her horrendous taciturnity. He's lost track of how many times he's sounded like an idiot on her answering machine, remembering always halfway through the allotted time that she's no outgoing message to prompt his commencement. Over his teeth he trips to fit in the words.

"Kyouko, it's-it's me, Makoto, uhh-" His breath rolls in huffs to the tugging open of driver's side door, lip catching neath top incisors. "Are you still at my house? Probably, uh- um, the concert's over, just, um- Call me back if  _Komarucomes_ _homeokaybye!"_ The ending beep follows immediately; he wonders when the next time he'll have a chance to breathe is.

Not now, he knows, taking to the street once again in hot pursuit of what he can claim not. The close parking comes as well with a route to the highway that does not take forty five minutes per centimeter, and he's running his tires against its asphalt within a sweet sweet ninety seconds. He tries a second call, this time to his missing focal point, once twice thrice fourtheth- All direct to message box. He lusts a curse from his tongue, though cannot shame her- he thinks himself worse in remembering his cellphone requires charging to use. More often than not it's-

A thickness climbs his throat. More often than not it's his suitor who reminds him of little things like that,  _charge your phone brush your teeth change your underwear more than three times a week-_ And, most prominently, he refuses to permit-  _don't lose your sister at the concert Makoto you know how hectic it is especially when neither of you can see over the counter at the bank-_  But-  _ugh! -_ he can't call Togami now, can't let him know he's done the one thing he'd been chided over (and chided back because he didn't need to be chided over such a stupid thing-  _ouch_ ). He'll figure it out on his own. ...Though, speeding down the highway in the opposite direction to which he'd last seen this other-

The dial tone gnaws his eardrum raw.

"What did you do?" is his greeting. The urge to swerve off the overpass remains tucked in his sleeve while he loses an exhale against the receiver.

"Nothing! ...It's not my fault," he winces, mouth taking on a motor's pace as he goes on, "We were just, y'know,  _there,_ and then she just kind of  _wasn't,_ and I didn't mean to look away for so long- or, I don't know- I told her to stay with me! But then I- I, I-"

In too faultless a timing, a vibration to his cheek draws the device to his palm (and perhaps he'd understand now why it'd taken three attempts at his road test to earn a valid licence, if he had room in his head to understand anything else at the moment) at the same second skull-pounding admonishments shove out to him. The name that flashes over the screen's top is a lick of fantasy.

"Uh- Gotta go, getting another call," he says over the hollers in haste, dropping the phone down again. "Love you." And he swipes to answer anew. "Um, Maizono?"

"Makoto!" is just able to be picked out from the bass behind it, and the lights so vibrant he can practically  _hear_ flashing. Even with its scream scratched filter, he pinpoints the voice. "It's me, where are you? Me and Sayaka-san have been waiting for you!"

" _Komaru?!"_ He has at least the sense not to slam on his break as he so envisions, rather allows the speedometer a lax in trade for his pulse taking lightning. "Komaru- where the  _hell_ did you go?!"

"Backstage, duh!" The grin in her tone makes him desire a throttle. "You coming or what? Where'd you even go?"

"I left! _"_ And he doesn't mean to shout, it's only the soothe of his soul that drives him to sound as though out for blood up to the elbows. "I couldn't find you anywhere, Komaru. Do you have any idea how worried I was? What if- what if some- some creepy creepo went and snatched you, or, or something! You can't just wander off and-"

"You  _left?"_

Those lights and harmonies- all of it's near humorously ill-fitting their silent stare down of a conversation.

Less humorous is the silent stare down she casts to the passenger side window, Tokyo's glamour reflecting back against her fire lined glare rested to a palm.

He hardly dares to swallow.

Wrath had guided his tear reversed to where he'd ditched, dissipated in the face of its mirror in her thinned hazel eyes. Maizono's interference had proved only to shove things more chokingly awkward, and he'd thanked her for the good time and complimented every morsel of effort given, taken to the brisk night air with the view of stomps leading him. A full gut load of apologies hadn't done well enough to shred her lips of their tautness.

Right...best night ever!

At another half mile mark, he clears his raw throat.

" _Sooo_...did you...have fun?"

Her blink lasts a full lifetime, he'd guess. Neither does she eye him in her answer. "You mean before you left me at the concert? Yeah, a great time."

A flinch pinches him together. "Uh...right, that did happen, yeah."

Scenery. Silence. Sweat.

The road closes in on home ahead of them. He steals his gaze from it a moment to fix it to his left, and chances the faintest breath in a laugh.

"...You know what this kinda reminds me of?"

No response meets it. Were he a stand up comic in a past life, he thinks he knows why he'd kicked it. Regardless- "Remember when you were like, seven, and I was ten, and Dad took us to Narita that one summer?"

Her hand does not drop from the support beneath her chin. The glowstick trapped within it illuminates the pitch of the nighttime ride. To her heat flush, lashes pad gentle.

"And we got that really nasty taiyaki, yeah?" she fills in for him. "I remember...I think I can still taste it."

"Yeah," he laughs, hands firm to the steering wheel's peak. "Then we went to throw it out, and got distracted by that-"

"Super huge plane in the sky!" Her teeth are a shocking blue in the stick's luminescence. "And Dad didn't even come looking for us-"

"'I was busy eating my taiyaki!'" The imitation of their father's voice paints him a horrible dullard, drags them each the same unto amusement's clasp.

She snorts behind a hand. "Mom was  _sooo_  mad, we weren't back for, like, twenty minutes."

"Yeah, but we came back," he says, soft in all ways placed right. "And so did I. I wouldn't leave you like that, I mean it."

For a moment's length, her lips take pucker, relaxing as she does back into her seat. "Don't get all gross and sentimental on me."

He'll accept it as success, accepts the easy grin his mouth takes. "Being the older sibling is harder than it looks, you know."

"Whatever, perfect older sibling." Her tongue prods through the gap in her front teeth identical to his own. "Buy me dinner and I'll forgot you left me to die at an idol concert."

"That's not such a bad way to die," pin pricks further conversation. "How's Steak 'n Shake sound?"

"Sure, but only if you tell me why you're avoiding going home," she says in impish intelligence, "That's a half hour out of the way. Tick off Kuya-chi a bit?"

A click kisses his right blinker on, a touch goes eyes to sky. "Being a boyfriend is harder than it looks, too."

"Mhm." Quiet is the twinge to her humming lips.

Lights and music of a whole new flavor dress their trip onward. Summer nights are a swallow's worth of lovely.


End file.
